


Hi

by 200and21bees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Domestic Fluff, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, Eventual Romance, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, On Hiatus, Pining, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/200and21bees/pseuds/200and21bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finding each other is only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Water under the bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past caring, Sherlock was just about to turn and continue his venture towards the door when the man finally managed to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean this to be a multi-chapter story but something happened, hopefully something vaguely good...  
> And because I can't help myself, here's [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYSdLYmfQG4&list=PLKc3Zu5h8EZUDExQ8vDSCa2UUndZ1-ILb) for this chapter.

 

 

 

 

Everyone had them. They were like a birthmark or a tattoo. No one knew how it happened, but everyone had words written on their bodies. And those words would be the first thing your soulmate said to you, if you ever were to encounter them. They could be anything from a simple "hello" to a cheesy pick-up line, even full-page poetry, but it always was the soulmate's handwriting.

 

Sometimes people had words in different language that they didn’t understand. Sometimes, if you were really unfortunate, the font would be so messy you couldn't read it. Or you could be stuck in the endless “I’ve got your words but you haven’t got mine” loop. Some said was all meant to be like destiny, but most just chalked it up to pure chance.

 

And of course there was a catch, there always was. You could die without your soulmate. Naturally, everyone dies in the end but the ones who did find their pair always died peacefully, usually of old age. The "soulmate deaths" were clearly different. Mostly it would be violent or just plain painful. They could be shot or stabbed, or they could commit suicide, have a fatal cancer or whatever. But the wound or tumour was always right where the person's Words were on their body, and no one knew how long they had.

 

 

 

 

~'*'~

 

 

 

 

Sherlock had his on his inner wrist on his left hand. He knew what it meant, it was one of the most suggestive places one could have their Words.

 

Or just one word, to be exact. "Hi." He already knew it was most likely a man's handwriting, possibly left-handed. But that was it, there was nothing more one messy word could tell him and he had sworn himself not to get involved or he would probably just die sooner.

 

He had been a kid when he had first learned what the Word on his wrist meant. Back then it had been exciting and he had spent years hoping his soulmate wanted to be a pirate too. He was sure that his soulmate would want to be his friend because no one else did. But at the age of 14 he was already fed up. It was surprisingly hard to keep hearing your word all over again but never get it right the other way around. He had no idea what he was expected to say, and it bothered him. He knew things about people just by looking at them, but he never knew what to say to them. Mycroft just scoffed when he tried to ask him about it so he never asked again.

 

Eventually he had had enough. His brother seemed to be above such trivial things, always talking about goldfish and eventually the attitude caught on. It took him 5 months of complete isolation, hours of meditating every day and several overdoses, but finally he could go out and be above it all. He had always known he was smart but now that he had a technique for organising and controlling his thoughts and memories, and it wasn’t long before he found his place. Solving crimes and mysteries was just what he needed, the excitement enough to finally get him to break his "drug habit", as Mycroft called it. He found a DI who would take him seriously and allow him to crime scenes instead of only giving him cold case files, and everything was fine.

 

Of course that didn’t last. Now that his job was to observe and deduce people, it became obvious that there was a limit to his abilities. He couldn't figure out what people's Words were. Even though he knew how common some phrases were, he couldn’t even get them right. Sometimes it could have helped to find the culprit but Sherlock just couldn’t. And still feeling a jolt of unexplainable unease whenever hearing someone say hi was slightly more than distracting. Yes, he felt infinitely alive with the thrill of the chase and the threat of a serial killer, and never felt like lapsing when there was a good murder to solve. Still, it took less than two years before Lestrade came to pester him with a case barely a four – that he had been refusing for a week already – to find him lying on the floor of his filthy flat.

 

It was the fifth and by far the worst OD of Sherlock's life. It got even worse right when he found out that his brother had found his soulmate when he'd tried to squeeze whatever information he had thought Lestrade possessed about Sherlock's private life out of the DI. They seemed to immediately connect – something Sherlock always thought was a cliché out of a fairy tale – and watching their happiness made him feel sick in a way he didn't want to even begin to think about, and never before had he been closer to finally slice the “hi” in half. Seeing his brother smile that genuine smile at Lestrade that had never been aimed at him made Sherlock’s stomach turn.

 

Time went by, and two months after his brother's downfall Sherlock took what he decided to be his last shot of cocaine. That was a year and a half ago, and he'd been clean since. It did hurt, being clean, but the look of pity on his brother's face when he'd paid a visit to Sherlock's flat after he’d got out of hospital was something Sherlock never wanted to see again.

 

Now he went on like nothing could hurt him anymore. He was able to look at Lestrade and not think about how his brother had just known the man’s Words. It seemed that his brother was finally ready to leave him to his own peace and stop worrying about him and if he was being honest, he almost fooled himself too.

 

 

 

 

~'*'~

 

 

 

 

John had never stressed about his Words when he was young. The phrase was something so peculiar that if he ever heard it, he was sure that would be his soulmate. He knew he was extremely lucky; people could rarely know what kind of words their soulmate would have on their body. He had heard of a case when one person had found two soulmates while working as a chatty receptionist, but those things rarely happened.

 

However, he had a clue of what he himself would be saying, and that was both a blessing and a curse. It hadn't been hard to adapt that to his repertoire, but over ten years of fruitless search left him feeling empty. Eventually he decided he didn't want to bother being disappointed every time. He would be wrong anyway.

 

Especially Afghanistan had been a wrong move. It could've been alright had he just been a soldier, but working as an army doctor resulted in learning all the obscure places where the Words could be on the human body. Seeing so many people die made John worry about his own life. He had never thought that he would actually die, but seeing a boy half his age getting shot in front of him... They had been talking just a few days before, and even though the gun shot had torn the skin, John could remember the words that had been there.

 

One of his friends got splinters on his abdomen and died during the surgery. John had spent over an hour trying to remove all of them, and the man’s Words ("You really just said that?") were the only thing John could remember clearly. They had been the first thing he remembered when he had woken up from a nightmare the next night.

 

After that, it was only a matter of time before he got sent home with a gunshot wound and a diagnosis of PTSD. John was almost happy for that. He didn't think he could work as a doctor and keep sane anymore. Even before Afghanistan he had been losing his night's sleep sometimes because of someone dying on their Words. Now he didn't need to worry about it, no hospital would employ him for a while. But the shift to civilian life wasn’t easy, work or no. There hadn't been a single night where he hadn't woken up from a nightmare, usually followed by a mild panic attack, and the lack of proper sleep only made his apparently psychosomatic limp worse. He got up every morning, stared at the blank wall for hours and still chose to go for a walk instead of shooting his brains out.

 

 

 

 

         ~'*'~

 

 

 

 

It was crowded and impossibly noisy and something hit Sherlock on the back. He was barely able to register that it was someone’s shoulder before almost falling to the floor of the coffee shop he was in. The brunette was quick to gain his footing again, but not before someone managed to grab his arm to help him. The man had stood up suddenly, phone in hand, and bumped onto Sherlock in an awkward angle, hence his embarrassing stumbling.

 

Oh, this wasn’t his day. Lestrade was being even more idiot than usual, he had had to actually talk to _Anderson_ to access some important evidence – which everyone else said didn’t matter but it did – and now he was trapped in a coffee shop, trying to pry his way out of the crowd that definitely hadn’t been there a minute ago. He already regretted ignoring Molly back at the morgue, he could’ve got his coffee there when he realised he wouldn’t be going home just yet.

 

A quick glance to the reason of his faux pas only made him more annoyed. Short, blonde and probably dull as a brick. A doctor, clearly someone good and proper like every idiot here. He could see the man starting to apologise but he looked strangely flustered. So he had to be quite embarrassed too, not that it mattered to Sherlock anyway.

 

Past caring, Sherlock was just about to turn and continue his venture towards the door when the man finally managed to speak.

 

“Hi.”

 

And just like that, his annoyance reached the tipping point. Hearing _that_ always made him a bit edgy, and he hated himself for not being able to control it. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock was almost shouting at the short man. “Why can’t you idiots stop saying ‘hi’ and just shut up already?” He quickly snapped his mouth shut after that, not wanting to get into any real trouble. He would take it out on the wall later.

 

“W-what?” The blonde man’s voice was small and he looked extremely shocked now. Temper now rapidly subsiding, Sherlock actually felt he should say something, probably apologise. He took a quick breath. “I’m sorry, it’s just – “

 

“No, don’t apologise.” The man interrupted him, sounding agitated. “Don’t you fucking apologise.”

 

Sherlock felt his nose crinkle in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

 

But the man said nothing, just grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and tugged him through the crowd to the back of the café. Sherlock was just about to disagree on being dragged around when the man turned him by the shoulders and looked straight at him, his apparently deep blue eyes slightly wide. When he spoke again, the words came out in a rush. “I need you to not run away now, okay?”

 

Sherlock was extremely confused now, but got interrupted by the doctor again before he could even open his mouth properly. “Just - just see this, please don’t run.” Being too confused by what was happening, Sherlock just stood and watched with a frown as the blonde opened his jacket and started on his shirt buttons.

 

Sherlock glimpsed around. Nobody seemed to be watching them, like they had somehow entered a secret time and space bubble and no one else could see them, even when this man seemed to be stripping himself right there and then.

 

But the blonde apparently was going to undo only the first two or three buttons, and when Sherlock looked back at the man, his breath escaped him in a rush and his heart stopped beating for a second or so.

 

His words, _his exact first words to this man_ , written on the man’s left shoulder, on Sherlock's handwriting! Sherlock raised his gaze and looked at the man with his eyes wide. For a second he had no idea what to do. Then he felt himself tug his own sleeve up in a haze to reveal the simple ‘hi’ decorating his inner right wrist. Sherlock could see wetness in the blonde man’s eyes as they followed his movements. He took a while to stare at Sherlock's wrist. Shifting, the doctor then raised his eyes back to Sherlock’s suddenly smiling coyly. Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

“Your handwriting is awful.” The man's face lit up and the smile that spread on his face made the corner of Sherlock's own mouth twitch up too, which wasn't usual.

 

“You can’t know that from two letters.”

 

“Yes I can." The man raised his eyebrows suspiciously, so Sherlock had to show off a bit.

 

“Doctors always have awful handwriting and you are trying to learn to use your brother’s – who is a drinker I’d say – old phone you only just got,” he said, nodding towards the table next to them where the man had placed his phone before stripping. Seeing the blonde’s shocked face made him shut up before he could really scare the man off completely, if he hadn’t already done that.

 

“I’m sorry, I probably should shut up n– “

 

“That's amazing, how did you do that?”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times. No one had said that before, never. He was a freak, rude, always insulting people by saying things like that, not thinking about what was coming out of his mouth as long as it was true. Everyone he knew said he was a psychopath.

 

The doctor just watched him blinking for a while, smiling softly. Then he broke the silence Sherlock had inadvertently created in his moment of stupidity.

 

“I’m John Watson, and maybe I could buy you a coffee? You could tell me all about my brother, if you want to that is,” he added, probably a bit baffled by Sherlock’s still ongoing stupid staring.

 

The detective opened his mouth and released a small breath, but the thought we had been about to voice escaped him and he just continued to blink like an idiot. Somehow he felt like he should try to impress this man, but on the other hand he was terribly afraid of driving him away. And the feeling itself was something he wasn't sure he wanted to have. But this man, this particular man, doctor John Watson, was his soulmate. It had to mean something.

 

When the blonde started to look a bit concerned, Sherlock finally told himself to get it together and opened his mouth again.

 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

 

That took John by surprise again and he let out a tiny huff. "You really are brilliant." The blonde looked sincere, and that really confused Sherlock and his eyes widened slightly in shock before he could stop himself.

 

"You seriously think so?" His voice sounded unexpectedly small and a tiny flutter of irritation at the lack of control crossed his mind. Even if this man was his soulmate it was no reason to start with _emotions_ again.

 

"Yeah. It was Afghanistan by the way, amazing that you can do that." John extended his hand and the detective quickly reached to shake it. To his astonishment, Sherlock noticed his hand was shaking slightly. He thought about pulling his hand back before John could notice, but then his hand was touching John’s warm and calloused hand and he almost didn’t want to ever let go, emotions be damned.

 

 

 

 


	2. Works's calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this man was his soulmate, shouldn't things go at least a bit more... smoothly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd again, and [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRw1E3uihys) something for this...

 

 

 

John almost thought he’d hit his head somewhere when he’d almost knocked over the tall brunette. He had taken one look at the man’s face and his old stupid instinct had kicked in. He hadn’t said hi to strangers in years, but somehow it was the only thing he could think of saying to this man. He did feel shallow and hypocritical for a second because had the man not been that gorgeous, John would have probably just turned away.

 

And then, finally hearing his Words, even though they were shouted at him in anger, made him feel high in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Of course he had envisioned this moment time and time again but reality still overpowered it all.

 

But feeling the man’s hand tremble slightly when they touched grounded John immediately. He seemed nervous and despite never having seen him before, John somehow knew it wasn't usual to this person to be like that. John could almost feel the man's hand shaking, and the euphoria he'd felt since they shared their words started to fade rapidly. He had no idea what to do, or if the brunette wanted anything to do with him at all.

 

"So, umm... Well, d'you – "

 

"Sherlock," the man interrupted. Apparently the blinking was over and the man had reached a decision.

 

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. I mean, I've been looking for a flatmate – apparently I am too difficult to live with – and you're welcome to see it if you'd like."

 

John just stared at the man – Sherlock, what a name – and nodded. He was already sure he’d follow this man almost anywhere, there was so much he wanted to ask him. So they made their way out of the coffee shop and onto the street, where Sherlock hailed a cab.

 

“So how did you know about Afghanistan? Or Harry?” They had just got into the cab, but John really was dying to know. “And please don’t tell me you’ve been following me, I just complimented you.” The man chuckled, but John saw that he was slightly uneasy. _Don’t let him be a stalker_ , John mused.

 

“I didn’t know, I saw. You are clearly a man with a military background, it’s in your posture and haircut. And you’re a doctor because of the smell of disinfectant that’s oozing off of your clothes. You still use it even though you only work part-time. You have quite fast reflexes, and you immediately checked me for possible injuries, probably subconsciously.”

 

Sherlock shifted and nodded to John’s lap, where his hands were still somehow holding his phone.

 

“You were holding your phone when you stood up and laid it on the table, screen facing down. That was probably just coincidence, you surely have nothing to hide. But it gave me a chance to see the engraving: ‘ _To Harry – from Clara_ '. It is a fairly new model, an expensive one too, so it would be a gift from your wife, not a girlfriend. But clearly you’re not married, nor have you been recently. And the phone’s quite scratched, like it’s been kept in the same pocket as keys and such. You probably wouldn’t treat an expensive phone like that, so a previous owner then. I’m fairly sure they aren’t doing very well, since he’s giving the phone away already.”

 

Sherlock had to pause to take a breath and it was John’s turn to just stare. The brunette risked a glance at his direction, and John opened his mouth again. “That really is brilliant. You can do that with anyone?”

 

Sherlock turned to look at him again. “Well, yes, but that’s not what people usually say.”

 

“What do they say then?”

 

“Piss off.” He smirked and gave another chuckle and John heard himself _giggle_. But the way Sherlock then lowered his eyes to his own hands on his lap made John see through the joke. However amazing Sherlock was in John’s opinion, he could easily picture why people would be put off. The man could clearly know all kinds of things about people and he didn’t hold back his facts, John could tell. Even now he’d only needed to ask and the man was ranting on about John’s life.

 

“Well, I think that’s definitely amazing.” Sherlock gave him a smile at that, but turned to face the window again. John wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe the brunette was just shy? John wished he could tell.

 

As a teenager he’d sported the idea of being able to read his soulmate’s thoughts, but of course it didn’t work like that. They were sitting in a cab, on their way to see a flat, and John really had no idea why this man would be his soulmate. By the looks and sounds of things, the smart, gorgeous man should deserve something a bit better than an old, bored army veteran.

 

And oh God, did he suddenly feel old. Sherlock looked like he was in his late twenties at the most and John himself was almost 40, how could they work this out? A ten-year-age-gap sounded bad really and John had seen relationships destroyed over much smaller things.

 

 _You don’t even know if Sherlock wants a relationship_ , a voice said in his head. He looked at the man again. It was true, he knew nothing about the man. But he definitely wanted to find out, and the brunette had invited him to see a flat. Suddenly living with Sherlock didn’t so sound bad at all.

 

 

 

 

         ~'*'~

 

 

 

 

Just as he turned the key of 221, Sherlock's brain suddenly came online and he realised where he was.

 

"I shouldn't be here." He turned sharply, nearly running onto John, before he realised he'd said that out loud. John was looking at him with a furrowed brow.

 

Sherlock felt that the whole thing hadn't quite gone like normal human encounters were supposed to, and surprisingly he was actually bothered at the frequent worried look on the doctor's face. If this man was his soulmate, shouldn't things go at least a bit more... smoothly?

 

"No, I mean this is where I live, but I was doing something before you tried to knock me down. I have to go back."

 

Luckily, the shorter man didn't seem to be put off. "If it has anything to do with that thing you can do, I could come with you." Sherlock almost felt like smiling, but just then the door opened, and a grey head appeared.

 

"Sherlock? Oh it is you! I was just making tea and thought I heard scratching but you didn't come in. Who's this?" Mrs. Hudson was looking at John with far more surprise than she should be allowed. Before Sherlock managed to open his mouth (why on Earth was he being so slow?) John was extending his hand for Mrs. Hudson to shake.

 

"Hello, I'm John Watson. So you live here? Sherlock told me he's looking for a flatmate."

 

Sherlock wasn't sure he liked the big grin that spread to Mrs. Hudson's face. "Did he now? Well come in, both of you."

 

She opened the door wide and stepped aside to let the men in. Sherlock couldn't help but comply. After all, he'd actually just been waiting for a case, not exactly working on it just yet. He quickly climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to 221B. Swishing in, he quickly shed his coat while John took in the flat. The doctor eyed the stacks of papers and files on the overflowing desk and Sherlock suddenly had the weirdest urge to tidy the place up.

 

Mrs. Hudson immediately headed for the kitchen and was tutting at Sherlock in no time. "Oh Sherlock, the mess you've made."

 

After the dead sheep that had caused a minor biohazard, Sherlock knew that whenever he let he landlady in the flat, checking the kitchen would always be the first thing she'd do.

 

"The sheep was already contaminated before it came here, so it was hardly my fault,” he called to the kitchen.

 

"You keep telling yourself that, dear."

 

Sherlock noticed John's staring and just shook his head slightly. "She's just worried I'm going to destroy the flat." John took another look around the cluttered living room and smirked.

 

"I wouldn't say it's dangerous just yet."

 

Sherlock just looked at him and smiled again. He had no idea what to say and he was afraid he'd just end up staring at the blonde again like in the café. He busied himself with his laptop, which he had to dig from under a stack of papers. Luckily, the kitchen table seemed to have passed Mrs. Hudson's raid and she entered the living room, still muttering about the water on the floor. Then she remembered John, and turned to him.

 

"So what do you think? There's a bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

 

Sherlock almost froze on the spot. He hadn't thought about that, and now Mrs. Hudson was making her own assumptions. Sherlock couldn't think of a reason why she would be thinking that he and John were like that. He hadn't said anything, and she had just met her.

 

The detective didn't dare to risk a look at John's direction. Surely the doctor hadn’t been thinking that, no. This was probably too much, the blonde had been quite tolerating so far, but the moment on the coffee shop had proved that he did feel a bit awkward. Now Mrs. Hudson had –

 

"Yeah, I quite think we'll need it."

 

That wasn't the reaction Sherlock had been expecting, John didn't sound as disturbed as Sherlock had expected. The brunette looked at John quickly from the corner of his eye. He was smiling at Mrs. Hudson, but he did cast a small look at Sherlock's direction when he noticed him watching. So, he wasn't entirely comfortable either.

 

"Don't worry, we’ve got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door, she's got married ones." Oh, Sherlock was going to _kill_ Mrs. Hudson.

 

He heard John's awkward chuckle. Still, he didn't dare say anything, he didn't want to accidentally drive John away. It was disturbing how he was already so scared of losing this man.

Sherlock was just about to consider the fear of accidentally driving John closer when he heard steps on the stairs. He quickly went to the window, and when the door swung open, he turned to face Lestrade.

 

"What's different this time?" The DI opened his mouth to ask but thought better of it.

 

"You know they didn't leave notes? This one did.”

 

Sherlock wanted to hug someone. Finally, something real to do! He had been running around, trying to get clues from his homeless network, but even the homeless people seemed to miss the serial killer now working in London.

 

"Will you come?" Lestrade looked desperate but knowing the police Sherlock was quite surprised how well they had handled the case so far.

 

"Where is it? I won't use the police car; I'll be right behind." Sherlock tried to suppress his excitement.

 

"Lauriston Gardens. We got a team there already, but I've told them to wait." Sherlock gave a firm nod. With that, the DI left the flat.

 

Just as the front door slammed shut, Sherlock jumped. "Yes! Four suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He closed his laptop and picked up his coat. Then he turned to look at John, who was just standing there, very confused.

 

Now that his mind was rapidly focusing on the case, he had little time to fret over his fears or the niceties.

 

"Well you seemed quite interested in coming with me before. Or you can stay here, surely Mrs. Hudson would love a nice chat and crap telly."

 

He went straight for the stairs, not waiting for an answer, though he heard John apologising to Mrs. Hudson. He grinned, and seconds later he heard John’s steps on the stairs. "Will probably be late, don't wait up. Nice to finally have something interesting to do."

 

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," the landlady chimed, but Sherlock could see the smile on her face.

 

"Who cares about decency? The game is on!" He opened the door, John right behind him.

 

The two men spent the cab ride to the crime scene in silence. John watched the changing scenery through the window, and Sherlock kept stealing glances of the man. He would definitely have a moment to sort out his feelings towards this whole thing. But right now, all he could think of was the case. He'd been following the situation closely and now he finally had a chance to get into it, so he would make the most of it.

 

John didn't seem disturbed by the silence, and the fact that he'd just came voluntarily with Sherlock somehow calmed the detective's mind. Maybe he could trust that John wouldn't run away as soon as he really got into the case. That was as far as Sherlock allowed his thoughts to go on that matter and when they reached Brixton, his mind was completely focused on the case.

 

 

 


	3. Did I just text a murderer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that French disco music wasn't quite the thing for this, so I had to come up with something [else](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7oQJfRHsZGM).

 

 

John had read about the suicides from the papers of course, but realising that there were real policemen and a real suicide that was actually a _murder_ made John's skin positively itch, and not in a bad way. But after meeting the first person there – a woman called Donovan – and hearing the brunette's response made John realise there was much more to Sherlock than he'd seen yet.

 

John wondered if the detective had done something to earn the insults. Donovan bit first, and Sherlock just seemed to defend himself. The Anderson guy was even worse, but again Sherlock definitely fought back.

 

When they finally got into the house, the DI he met next seemed to almost like Sherlock, and Sherlock apparently didn't hate him. Lestrade did cast a suspicious look on John's way, but didn't argue Sherlock when he insisted to let John come too. After Sherlock got to work, John couldn't take his eyes off the man. The speed of his thoughts and deductions made John almost dizzy and he couldn't help the praises. But Sherlock said it was fine, and John almost wanted to laugh at the surprised look on the detective's face when he said it. Maybe he could explore that later.

 

Then Sherlock took and left. All they got was an excited and frantic rant and a shout of "PINK!" and the brunette was off. John was left there with the confused team. Sherlock had been shouting at the top of his lungs, and now heads were peaking from every door.

 

"Back to work!" Lestrade shouted tiredly, and John was certain this wasn't the first time the brunette ran off like this.

 

The doctor took another look around. He suddenly felt quite lonely and he really had no idea what to do. Lestrade was going to go back to the body with the team, but then remembered John. "So who are you? His friend?" The DI turned to face John, looking dubious.

 

"I bet you already met Donovan? She can be rude, but she's right, he doesn't really have friends."

 

"Yeah, sorry. My name is John Watson; I've just met him. Do you often ask him to help?"

 

The look on Lestrade's face told John all he needed to know before the silver-haired man even spoke. "More often than reasonable. He's a bloody nuisance sometimes. But God help me, I need him."

 

John chuckled. "He certainly enjoys it. And he seems to be quite smart."

 

The DI took a quick look at the room where his team was working. "Uh, yeah he does. And luckily it keeps him busy. Even Mycroft's worried whenever Sherlock gets too bored."

 

"Mycroft?" John wasn't sure if he should just leave. Lestrade looked fairly anxious to get to work, but this might be John's only chance of learning things about Sherlock for a long while. The man himself might not want to tell him anything.

 

"Sherlock's brother, he's my, uh, my soulmate." The DI blushed slightly at that and John's surprised face probably didn't help. "Sherlock's got a brother? Is he like Sherlock or...?"

 

 Somehow that got Lestrade's attention and he turned to face John again. "I'm sorry, but I should get to work. I don't know how Sherlock got you to come with him, but I can tell he likes you, if he's capable of that," he chuckled.

 

"I've known him for about three years and he's never liked anyone."

 

John started to descend the stairs, looking at Lestrade over his soulder. "Yeah, well it seems he's not quite the people person, running off like that."

 

"He's always like that. Do you need me to text him?" Lestrade was watching him from the top of the stairs, which made John rather uneasy. He could feel his leg throbbing with the familiar pain. He'd been leaving the cane home for a few weeks now, ignoring the pain, but now he would've needed it.

 

Trying to keep his steps even, John waved at the DI. "No, I know where he lives."

 

He wasn't sure if he wanted to go to Baker Street now though. Sherlock probably hadn't thought about anything when he dashed off, but John couldn't help feeling a bit hurt. The brunette had practically abandoned him here and John was sure he was going somewhere else than Baker Street.

 

The doctor decided to go home, he'd visit Sherlock tomorrow. Maybe Sherlock could learn from his "mistake", though John wasn't entirely sure the man worked like that.

 

When he reached the police tape, the Donovan woman was by his side. "So who are you? Did the freak follow you home?"

 

John clenched his jaw. Before today, he'd never thought he could feel so conflicted. Everyone seemed to dislike Sherlock and even though he felt sorry for the man, John could see where they got the attitude. But Donovan had already earned John’s dislike with her so far constant rude comments.

 

"No, actually, _I_ followed _him_. You should do something about your knees, Anderson must have quite a lot of gravel on his floors. Good evening." With that, the doctor headed for the main road, the limp easier to ignore for now.

 

 

 

 

         ~'*'~

 

 

 

 

When John got home, all he could do was make tea and just sit on his bed and stare at the grey wall across the bedsit. This time though, it wasn't just a bored, dulled gaze. For the first time after Afghanistan John was feeling something of an excited anticipation at the thought of visiting Baker Street again.

 

 _And maybe not coming back in here_ , he had to add. Even after the events at Lauriston Gardens today the doctor felt a pull towards the brunette man. John almost didn't care that he'd been forgotten and abandoned in under two hours after they first met - dear God, had it really been under two hours?

 

Sherlock had been a whirlwind, leaving no time to really consider what was happening. Now that John finally got a chance to think and breathe, he was startled to feel a sting of yearning. Despite being a doctor and knowing about how people worked, he hadn't really believed in the 'love at first sight' that almost always featured in soulmate stories. But now John had to alter his regard towards the inexplicable soulmate bonds. And he still couldn't believe he'd met his soulmate. His soulmate, his bloody _soulmate_!

 

As he settled for sleep, he couldn't help thinking that he would probably be as eager to see Sherlock Holmes again, soulmates or not. The man was no doubt the smartest person John would ever meet and he couldn't wait to know him better and to see how he worked. He couldn't tell if that interest was returned at all and that was a thought that kept him from sleeping almost as effectively as nightmares.

 

 

 

 

         ~'*'~

 

 

 

 

The first thought that popped into John's still sleepy brain when he woke up was that there had been no nightmares that night. Until now, he'd woken up every night because of something - a panic-inducing dreams or just unpleasant memories. This time he had somehow managed to sleep through the night, which made him feel more perplexed than he would've anticipated. He couldn't believe that finding his soulmate had immediately cured him miraculously, but maybe there was a point to the love stories he'd always wanted to believe.

 

Not to seem desperate, John fought the urge to head to Baker Street for hours. When the clock turned eleven, he decided it would be acceptable to pack most of his things in a bag which he left by the door. He didn't dare take it with him just yet but it would be easy to come and get it when needed. If needed. He then stared at the duffel bag for almost half an hour before making another kettle of tea and resuming his staring contest with the bag as if it held all the answers to his problems.

 

When he finally couldn't take it anymore, John dumped his mug in the sink and pulled on his coat with a peeved sigh. He was so nervous even his hand had completely stopped shaking for a while. Hopefully things worked out because John really wasn't very fond of feeling so uncertain all the time.

 

After a short moment of internal struggle, John fetched the cane from under his bed. This whole thing made him feel a tad unsteady and having the cane with him was sometimes assuring, however much he hated the damn thing.

 

Even as he paid the cabbie he was half ready to turn back, but somehow he managed to walk to the door of 221 and knock.

 

Mrs. Hudson was just as nice as she had been the previous day and that made John feel somewhat calmer. At least someone was looking forward of seeing John. She was almost too excited and fussed with him all the way to 221B, since she wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was still in after coming home in the middle of the night.

 

"He keeps running in and out around the clock when on a case," Mrs. Hudson said. ”Last night he stormed in at two in the morning. He kept knocking the suitcase on the walls."

 

Before John could say anything in return, the door they had almost reached flew open and Sherlock Holmes stared at them at the top of the stairs. The man looked completely baffled for a second before composing himself again. Then his eyes raked over John's form and the doctor was positive he was doing his brilliant thing again.

 

Without a word, the man stepped aside to let John come in, which the blonde man did with a quick "see you later" at Mrs. Hudson. He entered the living room and turned to face Sherlock. After just looking at each other for far too long to be comfortable, John had to try to say something. Apparently Sherlock got his brilliance working again at the same time too, because John's amazing attempt of "uh, so, umm" got drowned by the brunette's baritone.

 

"I'm aware I may have forgotten you at the crime scene yesterday and I realise that might have been a bit... not good." Surprisingly, Sherlock seemed slightly nervous too, or maybe John was just reading his own nerves into Sherlock.

 

"Umm, yeah, that was uh... Not good. I mean," John started to babble awkwardly. "Anyway, I got home alright and had some time to think about... things. Like – "

 

"Like moving here, I can see that." Sherlock cut in with a small smile, seemingly done with John's stumbling. "The fact that you already packed says enough about that, I'll get Mrs. Hudson to dust the upstairs bedroom for you."

 

"How... Oh never mind." John slumped down on one of the armchairs, balancing the cane on his leg, and took a look around again. It was strange how familiar the place felt already. He reached to pick up the Union Jack pillow he actually could remember seeing the previous time from the floor and plucked it behind his back. "So why did you run off yesterday? It seemed to be important."

 

He couldn't help chuckling a bit at the excited look on Sherlock's face. The man was clearly itching to get to talk about the case. "Serial killers are always difficult, had to wait for them to make a mistake. And now we have one."

 

"What was that? You said something about pink, has it something to do with the woman we saw yesterday?"

 

Sherlock's eyes fell meaningfully to the floor in front of the fireplace as he climbed to crouch on the other armchair, placing his hands under his chin. John followed the gaze and noticed the pink suitcase. It must be the thing Mrs. Hudson complained about.

 

"Is that... The case? The pink lady's case you kept insisting was there?" John was suddenly having a moment of doubt. Hadn't Sherlock said that the murderer had the case? How did it end up here? Surely, Sherlock wasn't...

 

"Oh, yeah, perhaps I should mention that I'm not the murderer, thank you very much." The man was a bloody mind-reader! Maybe this wasn't the first time someone thought he was the killer, he did sound annoyed.

 

"Do people often think you did it?"

 

"Now and then, yes." Sherlock must've seen that John wasn't really thinking he had done it, because the man relaxed somewhat and gave John a lopsided grin. Still half-squatting on the armchair, he nodded towards the suitcase.

 

"The case was left in the car they came with. After the murder it couldn't have taken more than five minutes for the murderer to realise his mistake. Like everything else, the case had to be pink so all I had to do was search every alley wide enough for a car within five-minute-drive from the crime scene. Didn't take me too long to find the right skip."

 

"So you got all that because you realised the case would be pink? That's brilliant." The man had the same slightly flustered look that he did when John last complimented him. "So what's going to happen now?"

 

At that, the brunette abruptly stood up on the armchair and unceremoniously jumped on the floor, pacing towards the door.

 

"We're going to go get your bag, obviously. Don't really know why you didn't bring it with you." He opened the door, and John realised he hadn't actually taken off his jacket yet. No need apparently.

 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out as they stomped down the stairs. "John will take the bedroom upstairs, please go dust it. You can change the sheets too; I have spare ones on my closet. Take those for now." The landlady was already in the hallway wiping her hands on a towel and just spared a fondly tolerant smile at the brunette. "Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper. You're lucky that John here seems so nice."

 

Sherlock quickly pecked Mrs. Hudson's cheek on the way out. "Yes, yes, I know that. Tea would be nice when we get back."

 

Ignoring the chiding "Sherlock!" the brunette hustled out. John called an amused apology and rushed to follow. Sherlock somehow caught a taxi immediately and they got in. After John gave his address, Sherlock dug out his phone and turned to face John. “Take out your phone.”

 

John did as he was told, and after tapping at his own phone, Sherlock reached to touch his phone with John’s. “Now you have my number, I realised I didn’t have yours after I left yesterday.”

 

Sure, as John looked at his phone, there was a notification about a new contact. It must be a feature that John didn’t know about. Of course Sherlock would be showing off like that. He saved the number and tapped ‘call’. As Sherlock’s phone started to ring, the brunette took a quick glance at it and smiled. John let it ring out for a second more before pressing red and tucking his phone back into his pocket. He smiled at the thought of Sherlock saving his phone number. A feeling of something more solid, more permanent.

 

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. As was the visit to John's. And the cab ride back. John was getting restless despite the fact that he usually enjoyed having a bit of peace and the silence the men shared was still comfortable. But he didn't still know the man, so John couldn't help feeling unsure. He tried to catch the brunette's eyes on the way back to Baker Street but Sherlock kept staring straight ahead, his hands under his chin again.

 

 _That must be some kind of thinking pose_ , John mused to himself.

 

Indeed, when they got back, Sherlock immediately dragged the suitcase to the centre of the room and started to rummage his way through it. John stood there, bag on his shoulder, feeling somewhat useless. As if on cue, Sherlock lifted his head.

 

"You should unpack now, might need your help in a bit. There's just the bedroom upstairs, think you can find it just fine." With an almost dismissive wave of his hand, he resumed his work with the suitcase.

 

John climbed the stairs and found the bedroom had indeed been cleaned. He had to thank Mrs. Hudson later. First he got out his gun and placed it in the drawers next to the bed. It was always the first thing he did so it would be easy to find when needed. His clothes and the few towels and sheets he'd brought with him were quickly sorted in the closets as well as his other possessions, but John spent almost thirty minutes just sitting on the bed and looking around, getting used to the feeling of the space.

 

He took of his shoes after a while, flexing his toes against the rug on the floor. He rarely used shoes in his flat, so it would make him feel more at home here too, he reasoned.

 

Finally, he stood up, took his toiletries and laptop and headed downstairs. By then Sherlock had shifted to lay on his back on the sofa and after finding the bathroom John ventured to the living room and sat down on the armchair he almost thought as his already. He placed his laptop on the small table next to the chair and looked at Sherlock. The man had rolled up the sleeve of his shirt on his right hand, and decorating his arm were...

 

"Nicotine patches? You're wearing _two_ nicotine patches?" John congratulated himself on his brilliant icebreaker as the brunette tipped his head back slightly more and opened his eyes.

 

"Three actually; it's a three-patch problem. Could you send a text, the number's on the desk," he mumbled, waving his hand on the direction of the cluttered desk. John got up and found a nametag on top of a wobbly pile of what seemed to be hand-written notes of scientific data.

 

"Jennifer Wilson? That's the name of the woman, the murdered woman?"

 

"Yes, yes, just tap in the number and these words exact-"

 

"Hang on, I'm still working on the number," John had to chuckle. Sherlock seemed a bit impatient as he jumped off the sofa and paced the living room.

 

"You got it? These words: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street."

 

John was almost proud that he managed to get the whole thing typed without having to ask twice, though the brunette clearly slowed down for him. Indeed, looking up he saw Sherlock flashing him a somewhat one-sided smile. God he already loved that smile. John tapped 'send' and aimed a questioning look at Sherlock. "What is this about?"

 

Sherlock swiftly picked up the case and sat down on his leather armchair in front of John, planting the case wide open in his lap. "See, what is missing from this case?"

 

John swept through the things quickly, having no idea what Sherlock was after. "Uh, no? Who did I just text? The murdered lady?"

 

Sherlock let out a sigh that John could only describe as compassionately tolerant. "There's no phone. No phone in the case, no phone on the body. Where could it be? Think, John!"

 

"Maybe she left it at home?"

 

"As I said yesterday, a string of lovers, she'd never leave her phone at home!" Sherlock stood up again and dumped the case on the floor, starting his pacing again. John was taken aback. "So you mean... The murderer? The murderer has the phone?" He was definitely feeling slow but then again things were getting a bit weird.

 

" _Did I just text a murderer?_ ”

 

Before Sherlock could answer though, John's phone started ringing. Sherlock shook his head, so John stopped his hand before he could answer the call. Soon enough, the caller gave up and silence fell again.

 

John stared at his phone for a good moment before being startled out of his mind by getting his coat thrown at his face. Picking up the garment, he looked at Sherlock who was already wearing his coat and scarf and was standing at the doorway.

 

"Well put it on, we're going out. Come on." As John got up, rather slowly due to his confusion, Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's feet, scowling. He was already at the top of the stairs. "Where are your shoes? This is inconvenient, now hurry up. If murders make you this slow, we must rethink this arrangement." It was delivered with a little smirk and John's worry dissipated.

 

He wanted to laugh as he ran up the stairs. He pulled on his shoes and, without realising it, also tucked his gun to the back of his jeans. They were dealing with a murderer, after all.


	4. Angelo's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The candle was really doing things to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how it happened but John's like really really high... So [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAv0uUOfjoc) might go well with it.

 

 

"I'll get you a candle for the table, it's more romantic."

 

If John had felt like he had an idea of what was going on, he had just lost it. Oh God, how did he end up here? Why was that man talking about candles? Was this supposed to be a date? _No, scratch that last one, this must be something about murders._

Sherlock hadn't said a word to him. The brunette just hailed a cab and now they were in a small, exceedingly romantic Italian restaurant and John felt drunk. What on earth could this restaurant have to do with the suitcase they had been looking at ten minutes ago?

 

"You might as well eat, this could take a while." Sherlock wasn't exactly looking at him but, while peering out of the window behind John's back, his eyes swept over John quickly. John tried to open his mouth, but Sherlock seemed to know exactly what John was thinking again before even John himself did.

 

"Yes, we're still on the case, that's Northumberland Street behind you. No, I don't eat while I'm on a case. Digestion slows me down."

 

John swallowed the question he'd been forming - seeing as Sherlock had just answered it - and tried to come up with another. "So, you're waiting for the murderer to show up?" Well that wasn't precisely what he'd wanted to say, but John was glad it made him sound at least marginally smart and not entirely confused, which he really was.

 

"You think they're stupid enough?"

 

Sherlock's eyes flashed with something akin to glee. "No, I think they're clever enough."

 

Just then the man Sherlock had introduced as Angelo turned up again with a small candle. Angelo turned to Sherlock, completely missing John's sceptic glare at the red piece of stearin. "So, what can I do for you? Anything on the menu, free for you and your date!"

 

John felt his brain freeze again then. The candle was really doing things to him, yes, but someone really assumed he was _dating_ Sherlock? That he was dating his _soulmate_! Oh, but should he? Would Sherlock want to date him? It wasn't really obligatory to date one's soulmate.

 

But how could he ask Sherlock about it?

 

No, wait. Sherlock, Angelo, _pizza_. They were watching him. Not the pizza though, that was what he was going to order. And he could dismiss the date thing entirely and see if Sherlock would to the same. Yes, that's a good plan, though John wasn't entirely sure how long it had taken him to come up with it.

 

He realised he had been just staring for a while. He snapped his eyes off the candle and the menu and took a quick glance at Sherlock who was looking almost confused. _Oh, maybe a good while then_ , John mused.

 

"I'll have pizza, please. Just some sort of pizza." Angelo nodded and left with a mild frown and John let out a breath of relief.

 

Why does his brain keep blacking out like that? He hadn't even thought about the soulmate thing as a relationship status yet and now he almost zoned out at the thought of dating Sherlock.

 

Trying to get back to normal, John focused on sorting out his cutlery and pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher that hadn’t been there earlier. What was going on?

 

"The water came with the candle, John." Sherlock was looking at him with a small smile again, but he looked somewhat bored. John felt a twitch of panicked self-consciousness. He must be so dull compared to this man, and now they're trapped here, just waiting for a murderer. It was amazing though how Sherlock had got them to this point in the investigation.

 

"Oh, yeah..." John took a sip of water, wondering what to say next. Then it occurred to him, something he hadn't noticed had been bothering him.

 

"So you were asked to help on a real case. By a real police officer."

 

He cringed inwardly at his sceptic-sounding tone, but if Sherlock got offended he hid it well on the nod of his head, and John quickly rushed to amend his words. "I mean, I'm not saying this isn't the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long while, but is this like your job or something? The police don't consult amateurs."

 

Oh good, John. More insulting.

 

Luckily Sherlock just chuckled at him. "No, they don't. I'm a consulting detective, meaning that when the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

 

"I haven't heard of that."

 

"I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job."

 

Sherlock's face melted to a smug, warm smile at the surprise surely clear on John's face. Maybe the brunette was going to say something, but the "amazing" that escaped John's mouth again seemed to render the man quiet like it did before.

 

Next thing John knew was that the able was occupied by a warm plateful of pizza and the fussing aura of Angelo. Honestly, the loud Italian seemed to fill the space and air for a while with his questions and wines and pizza and before he knew it, John had a glass of white wine in front of him.

 

After Angelo had left, John finally managed to cut his first mouthful of the pizza. It was delicious and suddenly John realised how hungry he actually was. Sherlock seemed to be watching him with a look of tolerance – he did say he doesn’t want to eat – when he wasn't searching the street, so John tried to keep his munching somewhat civil.

 

The truth was, he hadn't been eating well after Afghanistan. Hell, he hadn't been doing _anything_ well after Afghanistan. He couldn't stomach anything on mornings, but after an explicitly bad nightmare he would usually be too nauseous to eat for the whole day.

 

At first, it was well past midday before he could even drink a cup of coffee and maybe eat a fruit, but nothing heavier. Lately he'd got better, but the pizza he was now eating really felt like his first proper meal in _years_.

 

After cleaning a good portion of his plate, John felt he was focused enough to have a bit of conversation. "So, what do you do when you're not... working?"

 

This seemed to catch Sherlock slightly by surprise. The brunette raised his eyebrows and then frowned somewhat, his nose crinkling in a way John noticed he really liked.

 

"I mean... like hobbies, interests, friends... Girlfriends, boyfriends, what people usually have." Sherlock's face moved back to the almost bored look. "Oh. Hobbies are dull."

 

"So you don't have a girlfriend?" Suddenly they both were frozen in the sudden, really awkward and honestly invasive question John had not really meant to ask. John could only thank his lucky stars that Sherlock opened his mouth instead of just standing up and leaving.

 

"Not really my area, no."

 

Oh God. Did that mean...? No, John knew he should shut up now, but something made him press on. Hopefully he didn't seem as nervous and completely freaking out as he felt.

 

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend then? Which is fine by the way." No, why couldn't he shut up? Damn Angelo and his candles and dates, they started this whole thing.

 

Sherlock did actually shift in his chair, obviously uncomfortable as the answered.

 

"I know it's... fine. I think I should point out now that I consider myself married to my work, so if you –"

 

"No, I was just... You don't have a boyfriend, okay. That’s fine, it's all fine, whatever shakes your... boat. I'm gonna shut up now."

 

John pushed his almost empty fork in his mouth and decided to focus on keeping his mouth stuffed with pizza for a while. He had managed to make such a fool of himself, he wasn't sure if he could ever trust his mouth again.

 

"I think that's for the best." Oh, at least Sherlock wasn't mad at him. John had no idea why he was so afraid of upsetting Sherlock, especially when the brunette seemed to have no similar worries. Luckily, eating made John feel calmer and more confident and there was something really interesting going on.

 

"How do you know it's him?" John tilted his head to the window where Sherlock still took an occasional look every now and then. "I had the impression the police have no idea who it was?"

 

Sherlock granted him a small sideways grin. "They don't, but I do. I don't know who the killer is but I know what he is. No one remembers seeing a strange car, not even the old ladies at the latest venue and you know curious old ladies, they're like security cameras. The victims disappeared from busy streets, no one remembers anything strange – you see what I'm saying?"

 

"I - uh, you're saying the killer’s... got an invisible car?"

 

"Yes, exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed gleefully.

 

"Then I definitely don't see what you're saying."

 

"Think about it, you could easily miss –" Sherlock started, but something caught his eye and he turned to look out of the window before letting out a satisfied chuckle. "There he is."

 

John whipped his head around to look. "There's just a cab, I can't..." He stared at Sherlock's face. "The killer is a _taxi driver_?"

 

"Angelo!" Sherlock took John's wine glass the doctor had barely touched and, like it had been the plan all along, threw it on his face. John flinched back and could only stare as Sherlock patted his face with a napkin, the man smelling like an old drunk now. Angelo arrived and before anyone could even start to say anything, Sherlock was throwing the napkin away.

 

"Angelo! Headless nun, if you don't mind."

 

"Ah, that's the case," Angelo said and rolled up his sleeves. John could only sit and watch in horror as the man grabbed Sherlock by his coat collar, wrenched him up and out of the restaurant, shouting at him.

 

He continued to shout "Cretino, out you drunk. And don't come back!" even when Sherlock stumbled on his feet on the other side of the street.

 

 


	5. Something I'm not used to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watched as Sherlock plopped down on the sofa and wondered. He wasn’t sure if he had really thought he could manage to shoot someone without anyone noticing, but Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to make a scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yeah. It's been almost half a year and this chapter is quite short (managed to cross the 10,000 word count though, yay) but I'm working on a new one (along with my other fics) so one so let's hope it'll take a bit less time.

 

 

Sherlock woke up feeling fuzzy and mildly disoriented. He was tucked in his own bed, practically rolled up in a sheet. He tried to get up but his head wasn’t exactly sure which way was up. What on earth had he done? Finally, his struggles paid off as he managed to sit up. Freeing his hands properly was something trickier, and he fell right off the bed with an undignified yelp.

 

“You okay?” His bedroom door opened and John peeked in.

 

 _John_.

 

John Watson, his soulmate. Last night came rushing back and Sherlock almost yelped again as he realised he’s once again left John behind. Stupid cab driver, he should’ve known bet-

 

The driver! He was shot here, wasn’t he? Sherlock managed to free himself from the infuriating sheet and bolted up. And swayed dramatically.

 

“He used some kind of drug, you slept for at least twelve hours.” John reached to steady him, a solid hand on his shoulder. The detective just grunted, irritated with himself.

 

“I came to when we got here, he told me how he committed those murders. Why did you let me fall asleep?” He turned to John, ”I was supposed to be investigating this now, not sleep. I don’t usually fall asleep, it must’ve been something I’m not used to.”

 

John frowned deeply. “Something you’re not – are you saying, you..?”

 

“Yes, yes, not relevant right now.” Sherlock ushered John out of his bedroom and into the living room.

 

“Right now we have a killer to catch. Or not maybe, they did kill a serial killer after all, it was bound to be someone’s job.” Now he was rambling, how nice. What kind of trash did the cabbie use on him? He shook his head as they entered the living room. The rug was gone and someone had scrubbed the blood off the floor and the wall. There was a hole from the bullet and Sherlock bent to have a look.

 

“It was from a hand gun, they told me," John stated. "Mrs. Hudson was more worried about the rug and you were all over the place so I was the one to give a statement. Not that I could help much, I don’t know a bloody thing about this whole thing. You disappeared and when I got back the whole place was covered in tape. Then I saw Mrs. Hudson...”

 

Sherlock watched John shrug and talk as he thought. A hand gun, shot from across the street. The shooter had known what they were doing, hands extremely steady; experienced, accustomed to violence. But they waited until Sherlock had been in immediate danger, so strong moral principles. Strong nerves, perhaps military… Sherlock’s attention was caught by John’s right hand as he was explaining something.

 

And it clicked.

 

“Good shot.” John halted his monologue and stared at Sherlock. Then his eyes flickered to the window. “Yeah, must’ve been. Right from across the street there-”

 

Sherlock took John’s right hand and lifted it. “Look,” he held it in front of their face and chuckled.

 

“I knew it was psychosomatic, as was the limp.”

 

John looked shocked and kept staring. Then he looked at his feet, and back at Sherlock.

 

“I doubt you’d serve time for this but keep the gun hidden for a while to avoid any trouble. I’m sure Angelo has kept your cane there, we can go and fetch it today. But now I need to sort out my mind palace.”

 

With that, Sherlock went and flopped down on the sofa, leaving John standing in the middle of the living room with a dazed expression. That man killed someone because Sherlock had been in danger. Sherlock needed to arrange every detail properly, and not about the case, not really. It had turned out to be dull and too simple in the end and he had expected something more.

 

The main thing now was John. He seemed simple and ordinary but as it turned out, he had a completely different side to him too. A dangerous side, though Sherlock couldn’t feel anything but intrigued by him.

 

 

–

 

 

John watched as Sherlock plopped down on the sofa and wondered. He wasn’t sure if he had really thought he could manage to shoot someone without anyone noticing, but Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to make a scene. The brunet was really too calm about it, but then again so was John. He glanced at his hand again. Perfectly steady. He hadn’t really noticed going running after the cab or forgetting his cane. It had just happened, and now he’d slept fine and still continued to pace the flat without the slightest sign of pain this morning.

 

The doctor ran his hand through his hair once more and decided he’d make breakfast. He’d already eaten some but Sherlock hadn’t eaten last night – or probably not at all yesterday – and he had been drugged. Putting the kettle on, John thought about Sherlock’s words. The man admitted he had used drugs before. That would be something he felt like they needed to talk about.

 

There were actually quite many things to talk about. John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was thinking about this whole thing, about their status as soulmates. He clearly wasn’t used to people, at least that was the impression he gave last night at Angelo’s. John still cringed at his awkward attempt at conversation at the restaurant. He was usually better with stuff like that, both on a date or with friends.

 

He wondered if Sherlock was interested in either. He had said he was “married to his work”, but maybe they just needed to get to know each other. He’d asked John to move in with him the day they met, after all. John was quite sure he would be up for nearly anything Sherlock would want.

 

While he waited for the kettle, John tried to find something edible for them. Some shelves in the fridge looked like a biohazard, and the bread bin had more mold than bread in it. He found some eggs from a cupboard and carefully smelled each one after cracking it to make sure they weren’t off (a few were). How was Sherlock even alive now started to seem like a mystery to John.

 

After dividing the scramble to two plates and fixing two cups of tea, John brought them to the living room where Sherlock seemed to be still doing whatever he did. John waited for a while but when the food started to go cold he cleared his throat and told Sherlock to eat.

 

“Hmh,” was the only answer he got and John tried again.

 

“Sherlock, you need to eat, before it goes cold. You can do that mind thing later.” Sherlock sat up and turned to scowl at John.

 

“’ _That mind thing_ ’?” He scoffed but picked up the fork and took a few bites. John ate his portion and watched Sherlock sip his tea.

 

“Yeah, what is it actually?” he inquired after a while. “It must have something to do with your deducting, right?”

 

Sherlock huffed a dramatic breath and put his tea down. “It’s my hard drive, I only put things in there that are useful so I can find them later.”

 

“So it’s a memory technique?”

 

“If you insist on being to pedestrian about it, yes.” Sherlock flopped back down and ignored John in favour of leafing through the newspaper.

 

John sighed, got up and headed upstairs. He sat on his bed again, considering what to do. He should visit his flat, get the rest of his things moved here. He’d need to clean his gun, and he had only brought so many clothes with him yesterday.

 

‘God, I only met him two days ago,’ John realised. It already felt like he’d been living here for weeks at least. The room felt familiar, the flat felt familiar and even though the doctor in him had been appalled by the state of the kitchen only minutes ago, he’d already gotten used to it.

 

Well, almost. It seemed like he would be the one to nag around the flat, Sherlock seemed to make a lot of mess.

 

He went back downstairs after a while. Sherlock was laying there, his hands steepled under his chin. John sat on his chair - there was _his_ chair already? – and opened his laptop. He had stayed up late last night just in case Sherlock needed him, and at some point he had just opened his laptop and started to write.

 

He had written briefly about meeting Sherlock, though he had left the soulmate part out of it, and then a bit more about the case. Now he opened the blog post draft and read through it. Maybe he could post it, the case sounded interesting and he had captured his feeling at the time quite well and he wanted to hold on to that. It had been a while since anything had caught his attention like this, and the first time that something had engaged him like this. He hadn’t written a proper post on his blog before and now there were chapters after chapters of text. Something Sherlock might laugh at. Something new, something he wasn’t used to.

 

But he breathed in and breathed out and then hit ‘submit’.


End file.
